


she holds me by the hand (i must not go)

by ace_verity



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DC Extended Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, New Orleans, and lots of beignets too, helena loves her gf dinah, literally just happy fluff, no angst whatsoever, so she takes her on vacation to new orleans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24201820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_verity/pseuds/ace_verity
Summary: They've been dating for a year, and Helena wants to celebrate with a weekend away.
Relationships: Helena Bertinelli/Dinah Lance
Comments: 26
Kudos: 112





	she holds me by the hand (i must not go)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a hopeless romantic, what can i say
> 
> title from __[Leaves of Grass](https://whitmanarchive.org/published/LG/1881/poems/41) by Walt Whitman.
> 
> special thanks to steph for help with the fashion side of things!
> 
> hope you enjoy!

One year, they’ve been together, and it seems almost unbelievable.

A whole year. It’s a day worth celebrating, Helena thinks; after all, most of the anniversaries they mark are tragic. Not this, though — and Helena knows that it is vitally, crucially important that she get this right.

Dinah isn’t a diamonds kind of girl; the Sionis incident had left a bad taste in both of their mouths, and in truth, Helena had been glad that Harley had taken and pawned the diamond. Flowers seem inadequate — a whole botanical garden wouldn’t be enough, because Dinah deserves more than just nice things to look at.

The closer the anniversary gets, the more Helena panics. She asks Harley for advice, which is unsurprisingly unhelpful — Harley’s recommendation is to ‘treat Dinah real special’, and when Helena asks for specifics, Harley goes into excruciatingly vivid detail and cackles at Helena’s mortification. Helena asks Cass next, but Cass looks at her in bafflement and asks Helena why the hell she’s asking advice from a high school freshman.

Renee, though. Renee is actually helpful, in her own slightly abrasive way.

“Take her on a trip,” she suggests. “Nice hotel, nice dinner, some sightseeing. Canary’ll eat it up. Plus, it’ll get you both out of my hair for a few days. God knows I need a break from you idiots.”

“Thank you,” Helena tells her, magnanimously deciding to ignore the insult. “That’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Renee waves it off. “Don’t stress about it, alright? Whatever you decide to do, she’ll love it. Trust me.”

Helena tries very hard not to stress about it, but mostly fails. A trip is well and good, but now the question becomes _where._ Money isn’t a factor, not with the whole of the Bertinelli fortune in Helena’s possession. Even the cost of establishing the Birds of Prey hadn’t put a dent in it. She thinks that her father and grandfather and all the Bertinellis of Mafia fame would heartily disapprove of her using the family fortune to fund a lavish anniversary getaway with her girlfriend, but Helena genuinely does not care. She’d disappoint all her ancestors for Dinah — probably already has, if she’s being honest.

 _Romantic vacation spots,_ she googles one night when Dinah’s already asleep next to her in bed and starts scrolling. Paris, Florence, Santorini, Kyoto — all beautiful, and yet too _impersonal._ Helena’s long past planning romantic overtures on the advice of the Internet; after nearly a year of being with Dinah, she has to be able to come up with something based on Dinah’s own desires and interests, not those of random tourists worldwide.

And then one night after a mission, the three of them are having a drink in their warehouse headquarters talking about nothing in particular, and Renee brings up a new Creole restaurant downtown that she and Ellen want to try out, and Dinah says, “Damn, that sounds good. You know, I’ve always wanted to go to New Orleans, try the real thing.”

“I was there a long time ago,” Renee says and starts talking about a disastrous Mardi Gras she’d spent there in her twenties, but Helena isn’t listening — she’s already planning. 

From there, it falls into place: Helena books a room and buys plane tickets and even goes shopping — because she is going to do this _right,_ even if that means spending too much money on fancy clothes — and Dinah is none the wiser. 

Helena doesn’t want to wait _too_ long to tell her; after all, Dinah will want to plan for time off from the nightclub where she works now, so exactly three weeks before their planned departure — three weeks and one day before their actual anniversary — Helena makes _pasta alla norma_ for dinner and lights a candle for the middle of the table. It’s just a cheap floral-scented one that Dinah keeps in case the power goes out, but Helena thinks that it establishes a nice atmosphere. 

“You know, our anniversary isn’t for another three weeks,” Dinah comments when she gets home from rehearsal at the club to find dinner and wine waiting on the table. “Getting a head start?”

“Kind of,” Helena says, but doesn’t elaborate. “Go ahead, let’s eat.”

“Alright, alright.” Dinah raises her hands in surrender. “You’re being cryptic, but that’s fine. I’m patient.” She smiles, which makes Helena melt a little inside even after nearly a year together, and she makes it halfway through the meal before she can’t wait any longer — she gets up and retrieves the envelope from where she’d hidden it, then slides it across the table to Dinah. 

Dinah sets her fork down and raises her eyebrows. “What’s this?”

“Open it,” Helena prompts, and Dinah obliges, withdrawing two perfectly-folded sheets of paper.

“Gotham International to Louis Armstrong New Orleans International, April fifteenth —” She unfolds the other sheet. “Confirmation of your stay, Hotel Monteleone.” Dinah looks up, wide-eyed. “Oh my God, Helena.”

Helena is suddenly struck by the worry that she’s fucked this up — that it’s too much, somehow, or wrong. “Is this okay?”

Dinah laughs. “Are you kidding me? Baby, this is — this is incredible.” Her eyes are shining, bright and happy, and she keeps looking down at the papers as if she can't quite believe they're real. "How did you know? I've always wanted to go to New Orleans."

"You mentioned it not long ago," Helena reminds her. "When Renee was talking about —"

"The Creole place downtown." Dinah shakes her head. "You remembered that? Damn."

"It's three nights," Helena says. "We fly down Friday evening and come back Monday morning. Hopefully the hotel is good, it's supposed to be one of the best—" 

"It's perfect," Dinah tells her. "Helena, I don't know what to say. This is just —" She shakes her head. "Amazing. You're amazing.” 

And she pushes her chair back and crosses over to Helena, leaning down to capture her lips in a kiss that, as always, makes Helena feel dizzy in the best possible way.

Three weeks had seemed like an eternity that night, but before Helena knows it, they’re boarding the plane, Dinah’s hand in hers and squeezing tight with excitement. The city shrinks away beneath them, replaced by farmland as neatly parceled as a quilt, and then they’re above the clouds. Dinah has the window seat, and she spends half the flight craning to see out the window, watching the sun set from thirty-five thousand feet. It’s Dinah’s first time flying — “And don’t you dare make a canary joke,” she’d said when she told Helena as much — but she’s not scared, not one bit, just faces it with the same bold confidence with which she greets every day. 

When they start the descent, the lights of the city below them sparkle in invitation, pinpoints in the darkness rising up to meet them, and Dinah’s hand tightens around Helena’s an instant before the plane touches down on the runway.

“Okay?” Helena asks quietly.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dinah answers, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze and smiling as the overhead lights of the plane flicker on. “Excited.”

“I am too.” It’s true — she can’t wait to show Dinah the hotel, to walk with her in the city and hold her hand without caring who might see.

“I’m glad, baby,” Dinah replies softly, and gives her a light kiss on the cheek. 

The airport is unsettlingly bright, as if it’s daytime inside, and the clamor of harried nighttime travelers and constant flight announcements might have set Helena on edge. But Dinah keeps their hands twined together as they step off the plane and go to baggage claim, and as always, she keeps Helena grounded. Even now, late at night in the harsh fluorescents of the airport, she looks radiant. 

The night air is thick and balmy when they step outside to hail a cab, a far cry from the cool temperatures they’d left behind in Gotham. 

“Where to?” the cabbie asks once they’re settled in the backseat.

“Hotel Monteleone, please,” Helena answers, and even in the dark she can see Dinah’s smile. 

“Hell of a view,” Dinah comments when she crosses the floor of their hotel room and pulls the curtains open. Below them, the lights of the French Quarter are spread in a shimmering array, and the Mississippi winds dark and satiny in the distance. 

“It really is,” Helena replies, although her eyes are on Dinah.

And Dinah knows that, of course, because she grins and tugs Helena close with a hand on her waist. “God, you’re a sap,” she teases, and lifts up on her toes for a kiss that fills Helena with warmth from head to toe. 

It’s with a good deal of reluctance that Helena pulls back a moment later, lets her forehead rest against Dinah’s and says regretfully, “We should probably get some rest.”

“Yeah?” Dinah presses a quick kiss to Helena’s jawline, then looks up with a playful smile. “Busy day tomorrow? You got big plans for me?”

Helena hums noncommittally. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Oh, really?” Dinah smirks, lets her hand trail down Helena’s back. “Looking forward to it.” She steps back and heads for the bathroom. “Think I’m gonna shower now. You’re welcome to join,” she adds, flashing her dimples at Helena and shutting the door behind her.

It’s been a long day, Helena thinks — she wouldn’t mind a shower, not one bit.

Helena wakes slowly, awareness seeping in, and she blinks her eyes open to squint against the sunlight filtering through the curtains. Dinah’s head is tucked against her shoulder; she has one arm thrown across Helena’s stomach and her leg hooked around Helena’s ankle, in the same position as they’d fallen asleep the night before. For a moment, Helena considers extricating herself to fetch coffee before Dinah wakes, but decides against it — normally, she’s first out of bed, heading out for a run or to the gym and returning before Dinah even opens her eyes. But today, they’re in no hurry, and so Helena lies still, eyes fixed on Dinah’s face, trying to commit this moment to memory. She could stay like this forever, basking in the warm weight of the woman she loves — loves, _loves,_ and the word makes her heart flutter every time.

Minutes pass, or hours, but finally Dinah shifts and sighs, and Helena is mesmerized by the sleepy flutter of her eyelashes and the little mumble she makes as she opens her eyes.

“Morning,” Helena says softly, and Dinah nuzzles into Helena’s shoulder.

“How long you been staring at me?”

“Not long enough,” Helena answers honestly.

“You tryin’ to flatter me?” Dinah finally looks up; her eyes are soft, like liquid amber in the light. 

“Is it working?”

“Always, baby.” Dinah kisses her, resting a hand beneath Helena’s ribcage. 

Helena would happily stay like that all day, but after a moment she tells Dinah, “Busy day, remember? We should probably get up.”

“Yeah, alright.” Dinah sits up and stretches, then pads lightly towards the bathroom, and Helena can’t tear her gaze away. 

“I know you’re still watching me,” Dinah says without turning around before she shuts the door behind her, and Helena just drops back against the pillow and grins. 

It’s going to be a good day.

Helena sits on the edge of the bathtub and applies mascara with the wand in one hand and a compact mirror in the other, occasionally stealing glances at Dinah as she does her own makeup in front of the mirror, her hands moving in deft, practiced motions. Helena gets distracted when Dinah starts applying her lipstick, and she pokes herself in the eye with the mascara brush. 

“Fuck,” she mutters, blinking hard as her eye waters painfully.

“You poked yourself again, didn’t you?” Dinah asks absently, touching up the corners of her mouth.

“No,” Helena says defiantly.

“Uh-huh.” Dinah presses her lips together, inspects herself in the mirror, and turns to Helena. “Let me help, babe.”

Helena hands over the mascara and lets Dinah finish, watches the way Dinah’s brow crinkles in concentration, her mouth unconsciously forming into an _o_ as she applies the mascara in neat, smooth motions. 

“There. Perfect.” She caps the mascara and sets it on the vanity. “Now like this." Dinah purses her lips, and Helena dutifully mimics the expression.

"Good." Dinah carefully applies a coat of lipstick for Helena, using her thumb to wipe away a smudge. After a moment, she puts the cap back on the lipstick and smiles, flashing her dimples. “Now we can do this —” and Dinah presses a kiss to Helena's lips “— without a problem. See?” She holds up the lipstick; it’s the same color as Dinah's, a vivid red. “Same shade.”

“Smart.” Helena gets to her feet and looks in the mirror — the shade suits her nearly as well as it does Dinah. 

"You clean up nice, babe," Dinah tells her with a grin, running a hand through Helena's hair to smooth it out. "Gonna dress up pretty for me today?"

"'Course," Helena responds easily. 

"That's what I like to hear."

True to her word, Helena selects one of the new outfits she’d bought for the trip: a linen sundress with pale blue stripes, belted at the waist, and sandals to match. It’s unlike what she would normally wear in Gotham, but fifteen years spent in tracksuits and combat gear had left her itching to try out more feminine clothes. 

When Dinah sees, she whistles, casting her gaze over the ensemble admiringly. “Lookin’ good, H. New dress?”

“Bought it just for this.” Dinah’s wearing a flowy olive green jumpsuit with gold accents and heeled sandals that nearly bring her up to Helena’s height — not quite, though. “Ready to go?”

“Lead the way,” Dinah tells her, lacing their fingers together as they step out into the hall.

The French Quarter is alive and bright in the morning sun, busy with tourists and shop owners starting their day, but Dinah holds Helena’s hand so that they navigate the crowds with ease. Their first stop is the Café du Monde, where they find a table in the shade outside and order café au lait and a plate of beignets to share. Helena lets Dinah try them first, waiting to see her reaction — her eyes flutter closed, and she makes a noise of delight as she chews.

“Well?”

“They’re amazing.” Dinah holds one out for Helena to try.

The pastry practically melts on Helena’s tongue, sweet and buttery-rich. 

“See?” Dinah’s amusement is clear; she gives Helena the rest, then licks the powdered sugar off her fingertips and takes another. 

The coffee, too, is rich and delicious, pairing perfectly with the beignets. They sit and watch the people passing by, and Dinah’s leg presses against hers under the table. There’s a rim of red lipstick on the edge of each of their coffee cups, the shade perfectly matched, and powdered sugar on the corner of Dinah’s mouth, so Helena carefully cups her face and kisses it away, tasting a sweetness on Dinah’s lips that’s even more tantalizing than the food laid out in front of them.

They wander the French Market when they finish, killing time before the riverboat tour Helena booked.

“Harley would like this,” Dinah muses, examining a floor-to-ceiling display of specialty hot sauces. “What should we get for Cass?”

“Voodoo doll?” Helena suggests, trying on a massive straw hat just to make Dinah laugh — it works, of course, and Helena almost buys it just for that. 

In the end, Dinah picks out several of the strangest hot sauce flavors for Harley, and they settle on a big bag of rich chicory coffee mix for Renee and an elaborate Mardi Gras mask in bright shades of pink and purple for Cass. Helena arranges to have it all delivered to their hotel, and they set off for the waterfront.

The riverboat has old-timey charm, like it’s straight out of the 1800s, and Dinah seems to love it, running her hand along the railing as they follow the waiter to their table — which, Helena is pleased to note, has a perfect view of the water.

The tables are filled with other couples, and there’s a jazz band warming up on a stage in the center of the deck. Dinah sits across the table from Helena, then scoots her chair so that they’re side-by-side looking out over the water as a waitress comes by mimosas on a tray.

There’s a piercing whistle, then the riverboat starts to pull away from the dock, slowly at first but picking up speed, and Helena is struck by a sudden concern.

“You don’t get seasick, do you?” That would be disastrous; why didn’t she think to check beforehand —

“No, baby, I don’t.” Dinah pats her knee reassuringly. “This is perfect.”

It is — the band strikes up a lively jazz melody as lunch is served — traditional Creole fare that’s even better than Helena had imagined — and the riverboat makes its way down the water, passing stately buildings and bustling docks along the river’s edge. The best part by far is the look of contentment on Dinah’s face, the way she leans in close and rests her head against Helena’s shoulder, eyes drifting shut against the calm breeze.

Perfect, Helena thinks, is the best way to describe it.

They take a walking tour of the French Quarter in the afternoon, listening to the guide tell them about the history of the city and its legends. 

“Maybe we’ll see a ghost on the tour,” Dinah whispers to her when they pass the Andrew Jackson Hotel.

“No such thing as ghosts,” Helena tells her, although she can’t deny the shiver that traces down her spine as the guide informs them about the hotel’s history as an orphanage.

“Just because you can’t shoot them, doesn’t mean they’re not real,” Dinah teases, and Helena huffs impatiently and nudges her to direct her attention back to the guide. 

The tour takes them past a cemetery, filled with mausoleums and marble statues, and they both slow to take in the sight: crooked gravestones crowd the field, and the few trees there are draped with Spanish moss that sways in the breeze. 

“The traditional New Orleans funeral is a lively affair that includes a jazz procession,” the guide tells them. “The music celebrates the life of the deceased and sings them into the next life.”

For some reason, Helena can’t stop thinking about that, not throughout the rest of the tour, and not when they end up on a bench across from the cemetery afterward, sharing a paper cone of pralines between them. The breeze carries the tune of “When The Saints Go Marching In” to them from a distance; whether it’s the sound of a funeral procession, Helena doesn’t know, but it catches Dinah’s attention too. 

“You know, I think that’s pretty neat,” Dinah says thoughtfully. “The jazz, I mean.”

“It is,” Helena agrees, although when she thinks about the death of her family, she can’t reconcile the idea of celebration with the jarring pain of the loss. At the end of a long life, though — she can begin to understand it.

“That’s how I want to go.” Dinah nods decisively. “Big jazz band, lots of booze. Make it a hell of a party.” She smiles, but Helena can’t bring herself to smile back; the thought of losing Dinah — be it in ten weeks or fifty years — makes something cold twist in her chest. 

“I don’t like thinking about that,” Helena says softly. “You’re not allowed to go.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dinah says jokingly, but then her smile fades, and she presses reassuringly against Helena’s side. “I’m not going anywhere, Killer,” she vows. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Good,” Helena says firmly, and takes another praline, lets the candy melt on her tongue, and thinks of a lifetime filled with moments like these. 

They have a dinner reservation at a fancy restaurant that brings back Helena’s vague memories of being paraded out at galas as a child; the place is all white tablecloths and candlelit tables and tuxedoed waiters. Their table overlooks the water, and if they’re slightly underdressed after strolling through the city all afternoon, warm and disheveled from the sun and breeze, Helena doesn’t care one bit. She orders in French, just to show off for Dinah, and under the table their ankles press together all through the meal. They skip dessert once Helena laughs too loud and gets dirty glares from the other diners around them, and she leans across the table and whispers, “Let’s get out of here.”

In another life, that kind of place would fit her perfectly; maybe she’d wear her hair long and pinned in an elaborate updo, sit across from a dark-haired man and laugh demurely in all the right places, and in the morning newspaper there’d be a picture in the society pages of the two of them, the heir to the Bertinelli fortune and her perfectly suitable husband.

It’s much better like this: leaving a generous tip for the waiter and finding an ice-cream parlor a block away, laughing about _the look on their faces,_ flushed and warm from two glasses of expensive wine apiece. 

Even at night, the streets are alive; light spills out through open bar doors onto the streets, filling the air with music, and it’s so vibrant and lively that it makes Helena’s breath catch in her throat. She could wander for hours more like this, as long as Dinah was by her side, but she’s perfectly content to let Dinah tug her through the doorway of a club once their ice cream cones are long gone. All around them, people are swaying and dancing to the lively rhythms of the jazz band onstage, but Helena only has eyes for Dinah.

“You gonna dance with me or what, Killer?” Dinah teases, her eyes sparkling and bright, and Helena could never refuse her, just takes her outstretched hand and lets Dinah pulls her close.

“Just follow my lead, baby,” she whispers against Helena’s ear, and normally Helena hates dancing — she’s too clumsy, her height making her awkward enough to trip over her own feet — but the way Dinah looks at her, guiding her through the steps with patience and fondness, gives her enough confidence to manage, even to dip Dinah low and savor her bright peal of laughter. 

“You’re a natural,” Dinah tells her, and punctuates it with a kiss for emphasis, and when the music shifts to something slower, sweeter, she rests her head against Helena’s collarbone, and together they sway to the tune.

It’s late when they return to their hotel, still light and tipsy from drinks at the bar, and when Dinah’s heel catches on a loose cobblestone Helena steadies her with an arm around her waist and Dinah laughs, breathy and joyful, against her shoulder, and doesn’t pull away. They’re far from drunk — Helena doesn’t want to forget a minute of the evening, so she’d paced herself, and Dinah had done the same — and as soon as the door of their room closes behind them, Dinah’s arms reach up and hook around the back of Helena’s neck, guiding Helena down into a kiss, and Helena slides her hands against Dinah’s thighs and lifts her, sets her down on the mattress and leans away just long enough to undo her belt and slip out of her dress as Dinah watches, eyes burning with intensity. 

“God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” Dinah breathes as Helena kneels on the mattress facing her and tugs at Dinah’s jumpsuit, reaching around to unzip it and dropping a kiss to the soft crook of Dinah’s neck as the fabric falls away. 

A year they’ve been together, and Dinah still takes her breath away.

“Come here, beautiful,” Dinah says softly, hands tracing lightly along Helena’s sides, coaxing her forward into a kiss, looking so incredibly beautiful that it aches. Helena’s drawn in, losing herself to the feeling of Dinah’s hands cupping her hips, Dinah’s lips against hers.

 _I love you,_ Helena tells her, with every touch. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

“I love you, Dinah Lance,” she murmurs later, when they’re curled so close that it’s hard to tell where their bodies start and end. For a moment, she thinks Dinah might be asleep already, but then Helena feels the press of a kiss against the crown of her head.

“I love you too, baby,” Dinah whispers back. “God, so much.”

It’s late morning by the time they wake, but that’s alright — Helena had planned their second day to be laid-back. The bells of the cathedral peal faintly, ringing out the hour, and Dinah greets Helena with a kiss. 

“Morning, baby. Sleep well?” Her voice is still scratchy and hoarse from sleep, but it still sounds like a melody to Helena’s ears.

“Mm-hm,” Helena replies. “You?”

“‘Course I did.” Dinah smiles, propping herself on one elbow and watching Helena swing her legs over the side of the bed, stand, and stretch. “Another busy day today?”

“I thought we could take it easy,” Helena answers. “Might be nice.”

“That does sound nice.” She makes a face when Helena pulls back the curtains, letting bright sunlight stream into the room. “Ugh. Coffee first.”

“Coffee first,” Helena agrees.

Dinah showers first, so Helena makes coffee in the suite's kitchenette. It’s watery and tastes vaguely of chalk, but Dinah still smiles when she sees it and drops a kiss to Helena’s head as she passes.

Helena can hear Dinah humming to herself as she does her makeup in front of the bathroom mirror while Helena’s in the shower — the tune is familiar, and after a moment Helena recognizes it as one of the songs that they'd danced to the night before, and the realization makes her smile. 

The melody pauses, and Dinah calls, “You almost done, babe? Mirror’s fogging up.”

“Give me a minute,” Helena answers, and the humming resumes.

She dries off quickly, wrapping the towel around herself and opening the shower door, joining Dinah at the sink and grabbing her toothbrush. It takes her back to the first weeks that they’d lived together, when they’d both been nervous enough to circle around each other; now, they fit together perfectly. Dinah doesn’t have to look away from fixing her mascara in the mirror to know when to step back to let Helena spit and rinse her toothbrush, and Helena hands Dinah a tissue to blot a stray bit of lipstick without Dinah even having to ask. The realization makes her feel warm — it’s so small, so seemingly insignificant, and yet it means everything to Helena.

“What are you wearing today?”

“Hm? Oh, just a sundress.”

“Just a sundress,” Dinah says, voice laced with playful skepticism. “As if it’s not straight off the runway.”

“It’s casual,” Helena protests. “Floral. You’ll like it.” It had been expensive, but Helena figures that she might as well put her inheritance to good use — and what better use than to dress up nice for Dinah.

“I always do,” Dinah replies with a grin. “Casual, huh? Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”

Helena is putting the finishing touches on her eyeshadow when Dinah reappears in the doorway, wearing one of Helena’s favorite outfits on her — dandelion-yellow shorts with three buttons and a button-down denim-blue chambray top, sleeves rolled and the front tails tied above her waistline. 

“Like what you see?” Dinah asks, coming up behind Helena and wrapping her arms around her waist, smiling at Helena in the mirror.

“Of course.” She turns her head to brush her lips against Dinah’s temple, and Dinah hums happily.

A few minutes later, Helena’s dressed in an off-the-shoulder sundress that drapes loose and flowy down to her ankles.

“You look beautiful, baby,” Dinah tells her, taking her by the arm. “Let’s see about breakfast, hm?”

After breakfast at the hotel — more like lunch, given that it’s past noon now — followed by beignets and coffee far better than what Helena had made back at the hotel, they decide to walk the French Quarter. It feels familiar, now that they’ve gone on a tour, and Helena listens to Dinah make comments about the architecture and soaks in the warmth of the sun. They pass the St. Louis Cathedral, which looms tall and pristine white above the street, and Helena pauses in front of it, feeling inexplicably drawn to its stately beauty. 

Dinah notices her hesitation and says, “Let’s go inside,” so they cross the courtyard and pass through the heavy wooden doors, worn smooth from decades of wear. Helena dips her hand into the holy water font at the entrance and crosses herself out of remembered reflex, the water startlingly cool against her skin, nearly making her shiver as it trickles down her forehead. Dinah’s mouth quirks a bit when she sees, and she draws her thumb over the excess, wiping the droplet away. Her touch feels like an even greater benediction than the water itself.

The inside of the cathedral is cool and hushed, in stark contrast to the bustle of the street outside and the warmth of the afternoon sun. Marble columns reach from floor to ceiling along the aisle, and the elaborately-painted ceiling arches high above them. Other tourists mill around as well, gazing at the fresco over the altar and the stained-glass windows along the walls. They get a few curious glances, and Helena realizes that the two of them might draw attention, walking hand-in-hand through a Catholic church. 

She tightens her grasp on Dinah’s hand, refusing to let go, and levels a glare at anyone who looks their way for too long, and Dinah gives her a soft, knowing smile and rubs her thumb in circles along the back of Helena’s hand. 

The sunlight pouring through the stained glass windows bathes them in colorful light, and there’s a faint aroma of incense and wood polish in the air. Helena trails a hand along the tops of the pews as they walk, footsteps echoing on the tile floor. 

They reach a stand of candles lined in neat rows along the wall, with a box for donations next to it. Helena releases Dinah’s hand, tucks a few folded bills in the donation box, and lights a match. She lights one candle for her family and for Dinah’s mother as well, glancing at the laminated card in front of the candles printed with a prayer for the dead, and then after a moment’s thought she lights another match. This time, when she holds it to the candle wick, she thinks not of the dead but of the living: Renee and Cass and Harley back in Gotham, and most of all of Dinah next to her. Helena doesn’t pray much anymore, but now she offers a silent prayer for years and years to come with Dinah and the others by her side. 

After a moment, she takes Dinah’s hand again and simply says, “I’m ready.” 

They walk down the middle of the church to the door, down the central aisle — _like a wedding,_ Helena thinks suddenly, and almost stops dead on the spot. Dinah glances at her sideways, evidently deciding that nothing’s wrong when Helena manages to keep walking, but now Helena can’t stop thinking about it. 

Does she want to marry Dinah? It’s not like they need a piece of paper to show that they love each other, and Helena hasn’t given the idea of marriage a thought since she was young and her future was practically planned out for her from birth. They’ve been together for a year, living together for almost as long, but they’ve known each other six months longer than that — is there a timeline for these things? Have they dated long enough for it to be proper? Would Dinah even want to get married? Helena doesn’t know.

But then they step out into the sunlight, and Helena thinks about adding a gold band to the assortment of jewelry adorning Dinah’s hand, thinks about finding a dress to wear, white or otherwise or maybe a suit instead, thinks about introducing her as _my wife, Dinah_ to — well, Helena doesn’t know who she’d be introducing Dinah to, but that isn’t important. 

“Hey,” Dinah says, pausing on the cobblestones outside the cathedral. “You’re thinking about something, baby.” She reaches up and smoothes her thumb over the crinkle between Helena’s brows. “What’s on your mind, huh?”

“You,” Helena replies simply — not a lie, but not the whole truth. It doesn’t feel like the time, Helena thinks — but someday, it will be. This weekend is for their anniversary, not for anything resembling a proposal, and when the time comes — 

Helena wants to do it right.

Dinah searches her face for a moment, like she knows there’s more that Helena isn’t saying, but then she just smiles and rests her hands on either side of Helena’s face, tugging her down into a kiss. Helena’s hands come up automatically to Dinah’s waist, on the warm band of skin between the hem of Dinah’s blouse and the top of her shorts. Helena wonders briefly if people are staring at the sight — two women kissing in front of a historic Catholic cathedral — but how anyone could call this _wrong,_ she doesn’t know. Loving Dinah is the most natural thing in the world, and it feels holier than anything she remembers from Sunday Mass growing up, like Heaven is right there around them. 

When they break apart, Dinah is smiling like the sun, dimples in full force, and Helena almost kisses her again, but out of the corner of her eye she sees someone approaching — a young woman, looking shy. Helena’s on guard, shifting slightly in front of Dinah _just in case,_ but the woman just smiles and holds up her phone.

“I hope you don’t mind — I’m a photographer, and, well, I couldn’t help myself.”

It’s a picture of the two of them just a minute before, perfectly framed by the front of the cathedral, and it takes Helena’s breath away. She hears Dinah thanking the woman, sharing her phone number, and then Dinah’s arm wraps around her waist, her hand resting against Helena’s hip, and it brings Helena out of her daze enough to remind her to thank the woman as well.

“That was nice of her,” Dinah remarks, studying the photo on her own phone once the woman has disappeared back into the crowd. “We should get it framed, don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” Helena answers. She’d get it done as a painting, as a mural, as a billboard for all the world to see — but it would be perfect framed on their nightstand, or hanging on the wall, and Helena knows that she’d look at it every time she passed it and never get tired of it.

“We could go to a museum,” Helena suggests. The afternoon heat lies heavy over the city, making it seem like the world is moving in slow motion to a soundtrack of birds and insects and quiet conversations. “I have a list on my phone. There’s an aquarium, too.”

“Where do you want to go?” Dinah counters.

“Whatever you prefer,” Helena says automatically, and Dinah’s mouth tugs upward in a smile.

“Seriously, babe, tell me which one you'd like most.”

Helena thinks for a moment, then decides, “The aquarium.”

“Aquarium it is, then.”

It’s not exactly what Helena had expected — it’s fairly crowded, for one thing, and it’s all indoors — but it’s cool and peaceful, and she takes a picture of Dinah petting a stingray even though that seems unnecessarily dangerous. Dinah sees her watching with trepidation and rolls her eyes.

“Helena, it’s perfectly safe.”

“It might sting you,” Helena points out, feeling like she’s being the reasonable one here.

“Look, there are kids doing it. Babies, even. It won’t sting you.”

Helena isn’t overly concerned with the risk that she’ll get stung, mostly because she’s not planning to stick her hand in the tank anyway; she’s worried that _Dinah_ will get stung and then they’ll have to spend the last night of their vacation in a hospital, and that would ruin everything —

And then Dinah rolls her eyes and grabs Helena’s hand, and now they’re both touching the stingray. It’s weird, to say the least, oddly smooth.

“See? Perfectly safe.” Dinah moves Helena’s hand so that she’s petting the stingray. Petting it, like a dog. A venomous dog. 

Helena’s more than a little relieved when they move away from the stingray tank. 

There are a lot of kids around, pressing their faces against the glass walls of the tanks and napping in strollers and toting around stuffed stingrays from the gift shop, and one of them runs directly into Helena’s knee and almost falls over, but Helena didn’t train for fifteen years in Sicily to end up with shit reflexes, so she catches the kid, sets him upright, and watches him barrel full-speed at a woman she assumes to be his mother. The woman smiles at him, smiles at Helena, and picks up the kid, so Helena’s satisfied that he’s safe and keeps walking. 

Dinah’s watching her, expression soft, and after a moment she just says, “See, I love that about you.”

“Love what?”

“I dunno. Like, you’re the fucking Huntress, all badass and shit, but then you see a kid or a dog and you go all soft. I dunno,” Dinah repeats. “I love it.”

It makes a lump form in Helena’s throat, but she’s not going to fucking cry standing in front of an informational display about sea anemones, so she nods. “Thanks.”

Dinah doesn’t say anything more about it until they’ve gone through the entire aquarium and make their way back outside to the neighboring park. They find a bench under a magnolia tree that smells like heaven in the warm sun, and they’re shaded by its flowers and the curtains of Spanish moss hanging from its branches when Dinah asks, “Do you want kids?”

Helena is not expecting that question — _Where should we go for dinner,_ maybe, or _Should we have gotten Cass a stuffed shark from the gift shop after all,_ those are questions she’s prepared to answer. “Uh. Hm.”

That’s as far as she gets before her brain completely goes into panic mode. Is this something they should have talked about earlier? What if Helena answers wrong, and then Dinah breaks up with her on this bench like something out of the Hallmark movies Renee hate-watches? Then they’d have to sit next to each other on the flight home and not talk and they still have a night to share a bed. Shit, _shit,_ this is bad, this is —

“Helena?” Dinah has a hand on her thigh, rubbing gently. She’s smiling, a tiny bit, but her brow is crinkly like she’s worried. “There’s no wrong answer. I’m just curious, is all.”

 _Does_ she want kids? Helena doesn’t know. She likes kids, or she thinks she does — they’re cute, and funny, and they seem to like her well enough, although her experience is admittedly limited. She’d been a good big sister to Pino, or she’d tried and mostly succeeded, because he’d followed her everywhere and she hadn’t complained much that he followed her everywhere. But being a good big sister probably doesn’t translate into being a good _parent,_ and — it’s a lot to think about.

“I don’t know,” Helena finally says once her brain is functioning somewhat again, which is what she should have said from the start, probably. “I guess I haven’t thought about it much.”

“Yeah, me either,” Dinah says with a sigh, and — huh. That hadn’t gone nearly as badly as Helena had envisioned. “Only reason I asked is, you seem good with kids, you know? And we never really talked about it before now.”

“I like kids,” Helena says, and then remembers something that she hasn’t thought about in forever. “I wanted to be a teacher, when I was little.”

“You did?” Dinah’s voice goes up at the end, so it sounds squeaky and funny, and she crinkles her nose at Helena in the way Helena fucking loves. “How the hell did I not know that?”

Helena shrugs. “I kinda forgot about it until now.”

Dinah’s eyes go soft as she grins. “That’s so cute.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Helena’s parents had thought so, too, until she got to third grade and was still talking about it, and then Helena’s father had to sit her down and explain that she’d be too busy running the family empire someday to be a teacher too. 

And that had been the end of that.

“You still could, you know,” Dinah points out. “Get your GED, go to college, get a job. You’d be a great teacher. Kids would love you.”

It’s unrealistic to consider, and yet — when Dinah looks at her with that fierce confidence, confidence in _Helena,_ it feels like anything’s possible.

The afternoon slips away too quickly, there and then gone, and it hits Helena as they’re eating dinner in a hole-in-the-wall place that serves gumbo and jambalaya that taste heavenly — this time tomorrow, they’ll be back in Gotham. 

It must show on her face, because Dinah nudges Helena’s leg with the tip of her foot underneath the table. “Everything okay, baby?”

“I’ll miss this,” Helena says. She couldn’t have dreamt of a better weekend; every day she spends with Dinah seems like the happiest day of her life, but the past two days especially have been like something out of a dream, like nothing she would have ever imagined for herself two years ago when she’d been focused on her mission and her mission alone. “I wish we could stay longer.”

At the time she’d planned the trip and made the bookings, she’d thought that three nights would be more than enough, that by the end of it she’d be itching to be back in Gotham in their normal routines. But she isn’t — she wants nothing more than to spend days, weeks, in this city and beyond with Dinah, exploring the world side-by-side, taking in the wonders and making it perfect for her.

“Helena,” Dinah says softly, and she sets her fork down and reaches across the table to take Helena’s hand, stroking her thumb over the back of her knuckles. Her dimples are out as she smiles in that way that always steals the breath right from Helena’s lungs and makes her sit up and pay attention, like that smile is the most important thing in the world. “This has been the most incredible weekend, and I’ve loved every second. But you know what made it so wonderful?” She squeezes Helena’s hand. “You, beautiful. All you. Doesn’t matter if we’re in New Orleans or Gotham or fucking Paris. My favorite part is always you.”

Helena doesn’t know what to say, just wonders for a moment how she ended up so _lucky,_ what she did to deserve this kind of happiness, and she’s pretty sure there’s a wide, dopey grin on her face as she finally manages to say, “You’re my favorite part, too.”

It feels inadequate, and yet Dinah smiles at her, and Helena thinks all her efforts to get it _exactly right_ might have been a little much — because no matter what, as long as she’s with Dinah, it _will_ be right, perfectly so.

“I could stay like this forever,” Dinah murmurs drowsily from beside her. Her breath tickles Helena’s lips, and it’s scented faintly of bourbon — notes of vanilla and caramel and something rich like the earth, and Helena can’t resist leaning in for another kiss, because the taste of her is more intoxicating than the drink itself, reminding Helena of the effortless, easy way Dinah had swayed to the music in the club mere hours ago, the curve of her lips against the highball glass then and then against Helena's skin once they'd reached their hotel room, the breathless and blissful sound of Helena's name on her lips.

“Like what?” Helena pulls back just long enough to ask, then dips her head down again, to the line of Dinah’s jaw, to the hollow at the base of her neck, to her collarbone.

“Just — here.” The softness in her voice brings Helena’s attention back up, and she meets Dinah’s eyes as Dinah adds, “With you, love. Anywhere with you.”

“Anywhere, huh?”

“Anywhere, everywhere. Long as it’s with you. Forever and ever.” She punctuates it with a kiss. 

“Forever?”

“If you’ll let me.” Dinah’s eyes shine in the dark as she looks at Helena. “This has been the best damn year of my life, baby. Of course I want more.”

“So do I.” Helena doesn’t think she’s ever wanted anything more, not in her entire life. She’d once thought she knew what it was to want — she’d wanted vengeance, after all, for years of her life, had been ready to die for it. But that pales in comparison to the way she wants Dinah — forever, endless, and most of all she wants to _live_ for it. If she could wake up every day next to Dinah, spend lazy mornings and run afternoon errands and run missions at night and fall into bed together after that, devote every moment, waking and sleeping, to learning every inch of Dinah — Helena would never ask for anything more, not in her entire life.

They wake early the next morning, the first rays of daylight streaking across the sky and casting their room in gold light as Helena organizes their suitcases and Dinah double-checks the bathroom vanity for anything they’d forgotten to pack. There’s a sense of quiet melancholy in the air as they close the door on the now-empty suite and turn in their room keys and hail a cab to take them to the airport, but then Dinah slides across to the middle seat so that there’s no space between them, covers a yawn with the back of her hand and drops her head onto Helena’s shoulder with a sigh. 

“Tired?” Helena asks.

“Well, someone decided to put us on the earliest damn flight there was,” Dinah teases. 

“Nine-thirty in the morning is not that early,” Helena points out stubbornly, but then she herself yawns not a minute later and rolls her eyes when Dinah pokes her.

“See? Too early.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You can always sleep on the plane, baby. I won’t mind.”

“I don’t take naps.”

“Oh, right.” Dinah’s voice is still tinged with humor, and Helena huffs, shaking her head and turning to look out the window to hide the smile tugging at her lips.

When they get through security at the airport, Helena’s first stop is at the coffee stand, and she pretends not to see Dinah’s knowing grin when Helena asks for a shot of espresso in her drink.

“Look, H, they have a Cafe du Monde here, too.” Dinah points it out across the food court. “We have enough time for one last visit?”

It’s only quarter to nine, which means boarding doesn’t start for a good twenty minutes. “Plenty of time.”

“Good.”

The beignets aren’t quite as good here in the airport as they had been on the sunny street in the French Quarter, but it’s a close thing, and either way Dinah hums happily when she takes the first bite. 

“Damn, I’m gonna miss these,” she sighs once they’ve finished. “Bet they don’t have them back in Gotham.”

“We should come back someday,” Helena says without thinking, but as soon as the words leave her mouth, she knows that she means them with all her heart.

“Yeah?” Dinah smiles at her from across the table. “I’d love to.”

And even though it’s early in the morning and they’re surrounded by harried travelers and bustling tourists and the sound of boarding calls over the intercom, there’s no place Helena would rather be.

_“Now boarding, Flight 272 to Gotham.”_

“That’s us,” Helena says. “You ready?”

“Sure am, baby.” And Dinah takes her hand. “Let’s go home.”

They go back to New Orleans a year later, and it’s just as Helena remembers — warm air and bright sun, cobblestones and fresh beignets and magnolia petals drifting like snow in the balmy breeze, perfuming the air with sweetness; they even stay at the same hotel in a room with a gorgeous view of the French Quarter. 

Except this time, matching rings gleam on their hands — a gold band for Dinah and silver for Helena, shining in the sunlight. To everyone they meet, from taxi drivers to waiters to the hotel clerk, Helena makes sure to introduce Dinah, saying, _This is my wife_ and feeling a thrill at the words and at the fondness in Dinah's eyes every time she does, and the ridge of Dinah’s ring presses between Helena’s fingers when they walk down the street hand-in-hand.

They’re together, and happy — and Helena couldn’t ask for anything more.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading - i'd love to hear what you think!


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